Maya's eyes burned. She'd been staring at the same spreadsheet for three hours, cross-referencing victim timelines, locations, digital footprints. Marcus sat across from her in the conference room, surrounded by file boxes—Emma's personal effects, her phone records, her laptop.
They'd been at it since dawn. No breaks. No conversation beyond the work.
"There has to be something," Maya muttered, scrolling through Emma's credit card statements for the fourth time. Coffee shops, grocery stores, gas stations. Normal life, captured in transactions. "He didn't just pick them randomly."
Marcus didn't look up from Emma's laptop. "Bundy worked college campuses. Ridgway worked the Sea-Tac strip. They all had hunting grounds."
"So where's his?"
Silence. Then Marcus's fingers stopped moving across the keyboard.
"Wait."
Maya's head snapped up. "What?"
"Emma's calendar." He turned the laptop toward her. "She had a standing appointment every Tuesday and Thursday. 'PT—6 AM.' Physical therapy, I assumed. She'd torn her ACL running last year."
Maya leaned forward. "Okay. And?"
"Sarah Voss—victim three. I remember her file mentioned she was recovering from a knee injury." Marcus was already pulling up the case file on his tablet, scrolling fast. "Here. 'Victim was an avid runner, currently in physical therapy for a torn menace.'"
Maya's pulse quickened. She grabbed her own laptop, pulling up the other victim files. "Jessica Lin—victim two. Give me a second." She scanned the autopsy report, the witness statements, the background check. "Her roommate said she'd been going to PT for a shoulder injury. Twice a week."
"Three victims in physical therapy." Marcus was on his feet now, pacing. "That's not coincidence."
Maya's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the remaining files. "Victim four—Daniel Ortega. No mention of PT, but..." She scrolled through his social media, his credit card records. "Here. Charges to 'Cascade Sports Medicine' three months before he disappeared."
"Emma went to Cascade," Marcus said, his voice tight. "On Capitol Hill."
Maya felt the pieces clicking into place, that electric rush of a pattern emerging from chaos. "He's hunting at a physical therapy clinic. Patients are vulnerable—injured, in pain, trusting their therapists. He could be staff, or another patient, or—"
"Or he's posing as someone with access." Marcus was already pulling up the clinic's website on his phone. "Therapists, front desk staff, maintenance. We need a full employee list, patient records for the last two years."
"That'll take a warrant."
"I'll have it in an hour." Marcus was dialing, his jaw set. "This is it, Maya. This is how he's finding them."
Maya pulled up victim one—Emma Chen—and cross-referenced the dates of her PT appointments with her last known movements. Emma's final appointment had been three days before she disappeared. The clinic had been one of the last places she'd been seen alive.
"Marcus." Maya's voice was quiet, but he heard the edge in it. He ended his call.
"What?"
She turned her laptop toward him. "Emma's last PT session. The therapist's notes say she mentioned feeling like someone had been following her. She asked if the clinic had security cameras."
Marcus went very still. "What did they tell her?"
Maya scrolled down. "The therapist reassured her. Said the building was safe, that she was probably just stressed from work." She looked up at him. "Three days later, she was gone."
The room felt colder. Marcus's hands were shaking as he reached for the laptop, reading the notes himself. Maya watched his face—the grief, the rage, the guilt crashing over him in waves.
"She told them," he whispered. "She knew something was wrong, and they didn't—"
"We're going to find him," Maya said, her voice hard. "We're going to Cascade Sports Medicine, and we're going to find out who had access to those patients. Who saw Emma. Who she trusted."
Marcus nodded, but his eyes were distant. "He was right there. Watching her. Talking to her, maybe. And she had no idea."
Maya's phone buzzed. A text from Lucia: Got another message. He mentioned Emma by name. Maya, I'm scared.
Her blood went cold. She showed Marcus the screen.
"He knows," Marcus said quietly. "He knows we're close."
Maya stood, grabbing her jacket. "Then we move fast. Before he does."
But as they headed for the door, Maya couldn't shake the feeling that they were already too late—that while they'd been connecting dots, he'd been ten steps ahead, watching them stumble toward a trap he'd laid long ago.